The Unfortunate Reality of Immortality
by hiddenheadspace
Summary: The prophecy has a much darker meaning that Harry never suspected, and Master of Death is more than just a silly title.
1. The Unwitting Master

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warnings: General creepiness, character death, EWE.

A/N: Well this is strange and a little creepy. I'm not sure where it came from; I wrote most of it late at night months ago, and the rest of it the next day. I've revised it a little since then, though. Unlike my other fics, this isn't a one-shot. It's a…drum roll, please. Thanks. It's a three-shot. The first and third parts were written separately and not meant to be a series. (I may have actually written part three first? Hard to remember.) Part two was spur-of-the-moment, let's-add-more-angst later addition. I'm still editing the later sections, but they should be up fairly quickly.

Also, this story picks up before the epilogue in DH, directly after the last line of the last chapter, if you're confused.

Chapter One: The Unwitting Master

by hiddenheadspace

-The Past-

"_That wand's more trouble than it's worth," said Harry. "And quite honestly," he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bead lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."_

-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by J.K. Rowling, Chapter 36

Kreacher had, in fact, been able to bring Harry a sandwich. It had had a slightly slapdash appearance, and contained some fillings that Harry had eyed warily, suspecting that the kitchens had been at least partially destroyed in the battle. He'd fallen asleep still fully dressed and wearing the same filthy outfit he'd put on before Apparating to Hogsmeade, and once asleep (with his neck at a painful angle and the sandwich dripping mustard on the sheets), he dreamed strangely.

He was dreaming of the park near Privet Drive, he recognized. The dream had dressed him in Dudley's cast-offs, and he felt much smaller than usual. Harry looked at his hands. They were his child self's hands, smooth and unscarred and too thin.

Harry wandered over to the swings, remembering the empty weeks after Sirius's death. Another child with red hair was swinging there already. Harry chose the swing furthest away from the other boy and aimlessly perched there, rocking himself slightly with his toe (it was a stretch to reach the ground).

The other child whooped as he launched himself off the swing and flew high up into the air, much higher than any Muggle child could have managed. Bitter memories of Lily and Snape swam in Harry's memory, and he turned away from the sight to fight down sudden, delayed horror and panic. He breathed quickly, shuddering, trying to forget his mother's kind face as he walked to his death.

"Hello, Harry," the red-haired boy said brightly, catching on to the chain of Harry's swing. "Enjoying the end of the war?"

Harry whipped around and found himself practically nose-to-nose with the face of the boy, who gazed at Harry with intent blue eyes.

Harry recognized him even at that age. "P-professor?" he asked disbelievingly.

The child version of Albus Dumbledore laughed. "No, Harry."

"No?" Harry asked, trying to subtly reach for his wand and finding it missing. Well, of course. He was only dreaming.

"No," the boy confirmed. As if to add to this, he changed his appearance in a rapid, vertigo-inducing shift to a mischievous-faced blond boy. "Harry, Harry, Harry," the boy said, still leaning in too close for comfort. "You just won't die, will you?"

"What—Riddle?" Harry guessed.

"No," the boy said. "Do I look like Voldemort to you?" The boy changed forms so that he looked like the youngest version of Tom Riddle Harry had seen in the memory of Dumbledore's trip to Wool's Orphanage.

"Er, yes," Harry said.

"Oh?" The boy looked at himself. "Well, I suppose I do. But, truly, Harry. You have no idea how hard I've tried to keep you from reaching this moment."

"What moment?" Harry asked, curiosity winning out over his caution. It was only a dream, after all.

"The moment you became my master, of course," the boy said.

This sentence was so nonsensical to Harry that he nearly laughed.

"I'm no one's _master_," he protested.

"You're mine," the boy disagreed. "And I've been wasting a whole lot of time trying to stop you from making it. Nobody's meant to live indefinitely. Even the strongest of safeguards will fail you eventually. But this?" The Riddle doppelgänger moved closer again. Harry leaned back precariously, shifting his weight.

"So," the boy said, and his appearance shifted again, so now he looked like a child that Harry didn't recognize at all. "I suppose I will just have to make your immortality even more miserable than your various near-deaths."

"What?" Harry asked, completely nonplussed. "I'm not—"

"You are," the boy said, sounding deranged. "You _are_, and no one should be!"

"I—"

"Hush up, Potter. I'm talking." The boy adjusted his appearance to look like a young James Potter, sending another jolt of painful memories through Harry. "Nothing, not even my gift to _dear_ Cadmus, can return your beloved dead to life. So enjoy what little your life gives you, Harry Potter, because I will _not_ stand for you to be happy."

"You're mental," Harry said flatly. "I'm not immortal, and I'm certainly no one's…master…"

"Oh, do you understand now?" Death asked, twisting James's face into a bright child's smile. His features began to change rapidly, shifting between many faces, many years, many wielders of the different Deathly Hallows. "Do you know what's the funniest part, Harry?" he asked, appearance shifting so quickly that Harry began to feel sick. "_And either must die by the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_. If Tom Riddle was still living, you might yet be freed of this. Too bad for you."

The swing chain broke, sending Harry plunging to the ground. He shot up in bed with a startled gasp, knocking his half-eaten sandwich to the floor. _Just a dream_, he tried to tell himself, _probably just a delayed reaction to using the elder wand._ That was all it was, probably.

Harry stumbled out of bed, trying to stay quiet to not wake up Ron, asleep nearby. He quickly crossed to the washroom to try and wash away the sticky horror of his dream.

Once he was out of the shower, feeling much better and a little silly for conjuring up such a bizarre dream (like Hermione had said: death personified? Don't be silly) when he glanced at the fogged up mirror.

_I'll begin soon_, read the writing in the steam.

George Weasley was found dead that same morning.


	2. As Death Promised, So It Shall Be

A/N: Wow, sorry, this chapter is very… There's a lot of character death and self-loathing. Pretty much, yeah. Mostly this is buildup to the next (and final) chapter. I hope it doesn't chase anyone away. Anyway, reviews are love, especially concrit!

Chapter Two: As Death Promised, So It Shall Be

by hiddenheadspace

-The Past-

Hermione's sobbing was sharp in Harry's ears from where he was collapsed in the sitting room on the other side of the wall. After a moment, there was a pause, and silence followed that.

Ron emerged a moment later, dry-eyed but shaking and with a frantic air about him. "She took a sleeping potion," he said in response to Harry's inquiring look. "She said she couldn't deal."

"Oh," Harry said. "Ron, I'm so sorry."

Ron just shrugged and slumped bonelessly onto the sofa beside Harry, too lost to stop and feel strange over Harry's appearance. Rose was dead, lovely Rose, with her inquisitive young eyes and her mother's frizzy hair. Harry couldn't look at Ron, guilt biting into his stomach like a vicious animal.

He tried to ignore the rising images of Ginny's funeral (which he'd had to attend in disguise, to his utter self-disgust), of Luna's disappearance, of Neville's death at the sharp teeth of the plants he loved. Malfoy was rumored to have encountered some strange curse and had disappeared into the depths of his manor, most likely to die.

God. Even bloody Malfoy was gone. Harry thought he might vomit, feeling too sick from shame to even feel much grief over his best friends' daughter's death.

_There's nothing you can do_, he reminded himself half-heartedly. He'd searched and searched desperately through the books in the library at Grimmauld Place for any reference that could explain how mastery over death worked, if he could stop death from hurting his friends, but to no avail. Hermione had noticed something was wrong with him besides the obvious lack of aging and had tried to nag him into explaining, but Harry couldn't bring himself to tell them that Mr. Weasley's death was his fault, along with the deaths of George and Ginny, Seamus Finnegan and so many others. Even if his relationship with her had fallen apart at the revelation of Harry's agelessness, her death had shattered his heart.

Ron buried his head in shaking hands.

"I'm really sorry," Harry said again, helplessly, because what else can you say when you're pretty much responsible for your best friend's daughter's death?

Ron shook his head as if to negate Harry's apology, his admission of blame that nobody realized was exactly that.

Hermione died not too long after Rose. Not suicide, but she seemed to just start to shut down, not able to go on living. Harry was reminded a bit of Merope Gaunt. Was this what she'd been like? So broken she couldn't live to care for her own son?

Ron drifted off in a sea of helpless grief, but he didn't die. He stayed by Harry's side through the deaths of all the people they'd gone through the war with. Harry stayed away from people he hadn't previously met, not wanting to curse any new friends.

The wizarding world knew something strange was happening. The Daily Prophet ran article after article, wondering. Harry had long said goodbye to the world and lived in seclusion, not wanting the truth to get out—that he hadn't aged a day since the end of the war. The Prophet though that perhaps he'd been the first casualty to the string of deaths. They suspected that Voldemort had left some curse in revenge for his death, or that rogue, escaped Death Eaters were seeking vengeance. They were all wrong, of course, but who was going to suspect Death personified of murder?

Ron was the last one to die. The Muggle Internet had recently begun to post images of wizards caught in the act of magic. It was only a matter of time before they were all exposed.

"I'm leaving England," Harry told the shell of the man who had once been his closest friend. "Maybe move out to Scotland or Wales. Get away from the London hysteria over discovering magic."

"Okay," Ron said. "That's probably a good idea."

Harry waited, but Ron didn't say anything else. "Do you want to come with me?" he probed.

Ron considered that very briefly before shaking his head. "No." He smiled sadly. "You go. Get the hell out of here. I'm staying. I don't think I could leave the—the house—" The house where Hermione and Rose had died. Harry understood.

"Okay," he said. "If you're certain." He reached out and hugged his friend. "I'm not going today, but I'll be gone in a week or so. I think I'll get a little cottage or something. Grow a garden. It'll be nice to have some peace away from the city, and I'm used to being alone. It won't be so bad, I think. You'll know where to find me."

Ron only contacted Harry once, to ask him to help the wizards hide from the Muggles permanently. Harry agreed, glad to help, since he had studied wards enough to keep Muggles away from his little house. He arrived to help design the wards in time to hear the news that Ron had been shot and killed by a panic-stricken Muggle. He choked down the last of his tears and did his best to help his fellow wizards before retreating again, being careful to remain distant and unemotional during his stay in civilization. He hoped he hadn't brought more doom down on the frightened wizards and witches seeking help.

After that, he spent most of his time growing his garden, encouraging vines to climb his walls. He didn't really need to eat much any more, since he never aged, but growing things made him feel like less of a horrible failure.

One night Death appeared in his cabbages, wearing Harry's eleven-year-old face.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Just to say that I've broken your curse," Death replied. "Considering everyone's dead, I thought I'd lay off. Not the immortality curse, of course. That one isn't exactly within my abilities to change."

Harry robotically patted down the soil besides the flowers. "And?"

"And nothing, Harry," Death said. "The Muggles have chased away all the wizards, haven't they?"

"Muggleborns," Harry said.

"Except them, but, well, there's no helping them," Death said.

Harry considered this. He could probably do something if he wanted to. The comforting familiarity of his garden wrapped around him.

"Not like I really want to deal with people anymore, either," he decided. "Not now, anyway."

"Good boy," Death said, sounding pleased. "Isolation's good for the soul. Cleansing. Besides, who knows? I might change my mind and feel like giving you a hand with your silly, miserable existence someday." And then he disappeared.


	3. The Unfortunate Reality of Immortality

A/N: Hey guys! Last chapter here. This chapter's a lot longer than the others, too. Do people actually read the author's notes? I do, but I also read profile pages. I stated pretty clearly, I think, that my other HP fics are one-shots, and yet I've gotten a lot of story alerts. I didn't hit the "mark as complete" button by accident, you know. Not that I mind; it's certainly nice to know people liked my stories enough to want continuations. :) So, yes, oh no, this is the end! Well, I have an idea of what happens next, but no interest in writing it at the moment.

Warning: this chapter also contains faint implications of sexual abuse. Nothing is stated outright, but it's there if you look for it.

Chapter Three: The Unfortunate Reality of Immortality

by hiddenheadspace

-Present Day-

The first time Harry sees the boy, it is his 177 birthday (just under 159 years since he stopped aging), and later, he sees the almost-poetic coincidence of that number.

It is a sharp _crack!_ like apparation that makes Harry jump to his feet with reflexes that have not dulled over time like his memories did. He hurries to the door at the shouting.

"Give it back, give it back, it's _mine_!" screams one of the boys, who seems to be giving his best effort at clawing one of his assailant's eyes out with his toes, judging by the way his bare feet curl over and make swiping motions at the other's face. An older boy is pinning the kicker's arms to his sides, and seems to be having trouble keeping him down from all of the desperate wriggling that is happening. Blurred faces swim in Harry's head and he brushes off the faded memories.

"Hey!" he snaps, and the scene seems to freeze. The older boys jump and the kicker stares at him with wide, suspicious eyes. "No fighting in my garden. If you have to tussle like wild dogs, you can exit through the gate in a civilized manner first. And leave the kid alone, anyway. Two on one's hardly fair."

The one who has been pinning the kicker's arms sneers. "Nobody cares what's fair! Besides, he's a magic."

Harry folds his arms and scowls. "_I_ am a magic. Now let him go and get off my property." He points a threatening finger at them, trying to bring up his best glower.

The two boys exchange glances and scamper. They're out the gate and gone from sight almost instantly, probably heading back towards the nearby town.

"Hey," he says, letting his voice fall into gentler tones. "You all right?"

The kicker glares. On second look, he's probably older than Harry had pegged him as, but his malnourished, filthy appearance had misled him. "Leave me the hell alone! Now I'll _never_ get it back!"

"Get what back?" Harry asks, half out of genuine curiosity and half just trying to keep the boy from bolting.

"None of your business," the kicker snarls and leaps to his feet, backing away.

Harry sighs. "Fine, whatever. If you need help, one magic to another and all that, you know where to find me, I guess." He turns and lets the door shut behind him sharply.

The second time they meet is months later, the middle of winter. Snow falls everywhere except in Harry's garden, because he'll be damned before he lets his one source of beauty be ruined by a cold snap. He is just heating up some water for tea when a sharp tapping comes from his door.

He obligingly gets up and crosses the small room to answer. "Yes, what is it—?" He breaks off quickly at the kicker's face, unfaded in his memory simply because none of the very few people Harry has seen recently have any spirit to them at all.

Just like before, the boy is barefoot, but this time his feet are red from the cold and the toes curled over. The ragged toenails are the same, though, and now Harry notices a scar near the boy's ankle.

The kicker's arms are wrapped around his chest defensively, but whether he is trying to protect himself from Harry or the cold is anyone's guess. "You said I could come back," he mutters by way of greeting.

Harry blinks, thrown for a few seconds. "Yes—yes, I did. Come in, please. I was just putting water for tea on."

The kicker—Harry realizes he ought to find out the boy's actual name rather than calling him after an act of violence—gingerly crosses the threshold, testing the ground with his feet as though afraid it might bite him, flinching when the warmer air inside hits him. Harry hastily waves a hand at his cot (the boy flinches again) and the blankets fold themselves neatly.

"Sit, please," he says, gesturing again. "I'll get another cup."

He gives the boy the mug and pours his tea into a chipped glass, his other mug having broken recently. The kicker looks as though he thought the tea might be poisoned, but wraps his fingers around it and huddles inward protectively.

"So," Harry says after a long silence. "What's your name?"

The boy shoots him a look as if he thinks that Harry might have some ulterior motive for the question, but mumbles, "Lucas," after a few moments.

"And what brings you to my humble abode?" Harry asks, trying to lighten the mood.

"Cold," the ki—Lucas says. Harry doesn't doubt it. The muggles had driven the remaining wizards and witches to the edges of society long ago, and Lucas clearly lives on the streets.

"I'm Harry," he adds after an awkward few more minutes, realizing that he hasn't given his name. Lucas gave no sign of acknowledgement.

Eventually Harry gives up on trying to make conversation and warms up some soup, ladling extra into Lucas's bowl.

"Here," he says. "Eat. It's only soup, but—"

Lucas snatches it from him as if worried that Harry would take it away if he waited too long, splashing it onto his fingers. "You're welcome," he says, trying to brush back dimmed memories of people he hasn't thought of in a very long time. Lucas ignores him again, choosing to wolf down the food rapidly.

"Careful," Harry says, alarmed. "It's hot—and you might make yourself sick."

The boy glances up at that and his eating slows. "Thanks," he mutters at last.

"No problem," Harry says, fiddling unconsciously with his spoon. "Any time." And he truly does mean that. He has extra to share, and any fellow wizard would be welcome in his home if they were desperate.

"You're magic," Lucas says some time later.

Harry nods and adds a piece of wood to his fireplace.

"Well, do you know much about—about it?"

Harry gives him a quizzical look. "If you're asking me to teach you—"

"No," Lucas says quickly. "I meant—the more obscure stuff. Do you—no, of course not. You're barely older than me anyway."

That, if nothing else, is highly amusing. "How old are you?" Harry asks.

Lucas eyes him for a moment. "Sixteen."

"Yeah," Harry says. "I'm a _lot_ older."

"Then—"

"Well, it depends on what you're asking about," he says. "Would you like a glass of warm water?"

Lucas nods and lets Harry take his mug. "I mean—having memories that aren't yours."

Harry looks up at that. "Like the memories of the people around you?" A sallow-skinned face swims briefly in his mind's eye like a pensieve memory.

The boy shakes his head. "No. Like memories of a long time ago."

Harry frowns. "How long ago?"

Lucas made a face and closes his eyes. "Uh—I don't know. But everyone dresses weird and talks all formal-like. And there are a lot of children. I don't know."

"Well, I'm not sure," Harry says thoughtfully. "That almost sounds like reincarnation or something. I met a girl who had memories like that, once. But I don't really know much."

Lucas nods and drops the subject and Harry lets it lie. He takes a few blankets to sleep on the floor, giving tacit permission for Lucas to stay overnight and take the cot. The boy watches him in wary silence while he does this, seeming to be waiting for him to say something.

"Well?" the boy asks after a long silence, with an expression that tells Harry that he was asking against his better judgment.

"Well what?" Harry responds.

"Well, what do you want?" Lucas snaps, looking apprehensive.

"Nothing," Harry says, catching on. "You're magic, I'm magic, and I'm happy to be able to help."

"Nobody gives something for free," the boy says. "Nobody does that."

Harry grins at that. "Consider me a relic from a long-forgotten time, then."

That comment gets him an eye roll, but soon the boy is curled up asleep, and Harry quickly follows.

In the morning, Lucas is gone, and so is Harry's extra pair of socks. This time it's Harry's turn to roll his eyes.

They meet again a month later. Harry is in his garden, trying to breathe life into his plants when he hears a rustle. The first things he sees are a pair of bare feet by his spaghetti squashes. Glancing up, he sees the rest of the boy and his favorite socks on Lucas's hands.

"Hello, thief," he greets.

"Harry," Lucas acknowledges.

"You look cleaner," Harry offers.

"Thanks," Lucas says. Actually being able to qualify his skin color as something other than dirt makes the boy look old enough to match his age. "I came to give you your socks back."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "All right, but this time I want something else, too."

Lucas winces reflexively, and Harry wonders again with a flash of sad understanding. "What, then?"

"Do you ever use your magic?" he asks.

"Yeah," the boy says. "I can control it pretty well. I can even manage instantaneous transportation if I need to."

"It's called apparation," Harry corrects. "And good, I could use some help with the plants. It's a nightmare trying to keep them alive during the winter." He turns back to the potatoes then, knowing perfectly well that it's a stretch to try and grow them, even with magic, in the dead of winter. Lucas hesitantly kneels across from him.

"Hold your hands out over the dirt," Harry instructs. "Try to push your magic out—_gently_—and increase the warmth in the roots of the plants over here." It's an easy enough task, and it leaves Harry free to try and continue to defrost the earth.

They work in silence for the better part of an hour before Harry asks, "Did you ever figure out what was going on with your memories?"

Lucas tenses but says, "No, not really, but you might have been right about reincarnation. I think I've gotten a date—some time in the thirties."

"The 2130s or the 2030s?" Harry says.

"It has to be earlier than the 2130s," the boy says. "Everything's just too different."

"That was a while ago," Harry reflects. "Is it difficult, remembering things that nobody else does?"

Lucas shrugs. "With luck, I'll be alive for a long time, too, so I'd remember strange things anyway. With us magics living as long as we do."

"No kidding," Harry agrees. "I knew a wizard who must have been beyond 100 once. And a witch who was old enough to have been his great-aunt."

Lucas is giving him an odd look and it takes him a minute to figure out why. "Oh," he says after a while. "I mean magics."

"No, you don't," Lucas says, still giving him a strange look. "Nobody says wizard or witch anymore. Just like we stopped called all of _them _muggles."

Harry considers his possible responses for a second. "You're not the only one who knows things they shouldn't about stuff from a long time ago," was what he settles on.

Lucas looks curious still, but he lets the matter rest.

"Oh, fine," Harry says after a few minutes of dead silence. "I can't die and I have no idea why not. Well, that's not entirely true, but—" He breaks off to think, having never really had a chance to try and piece the truth together in words for a long time. "Something happened—someone was killed—and after that I stopped aging. I never really knew why, just that it happened like that."

"Oh," Lucas says. "I guess that explains your comments about being older than me."

"Yeah," Harry says. "A lot older. I turned one hundred and seventy-seven last summer. Believe me, that's old, even for a wizard."

Lucas's mouth has fallen open and he stares at Harry in shock, a mixture of shock and fascination in his eyes.

"And you have no idea why?" he asks finally.

Harry shakes his head. "No, not really. One of my friends though it might have had to do with a weird bit of soul magic mixed with a prophecy, but we had no way to really know for sure. Then everything went to hell with the muggles, and she died." Hermione's face hasn't faded, not like so many of the others.

Lucas shuts his mouth. "That's awful. I'd hate to live that long."

Harry laughs harshly. "Yeah, I dropped out of society so I wouldn't get a lot of accusations of messing around with dark magic once we realized that I was still seventeen. It wasn't fun, especially considering that everyone else was still getting older. Immortality sounds fun, but once it sinks in…" He shivers at the memories of his despair all those years ago. "There's no way for me to die, believe me. And it's no picnic. Come back in forty years and you'll see why."

"If I even live that long," Lucas points out dryly.

Harry laughs that off. "Hey, you managed this far. Most magical kids have to run and hide. Not with the others, wherever they've hidden themselves away, I mean. Just off hiding wherever they can." Most who try to live in the cities die before they make it to double-digits. They leave that unsaid.

"I suppose I've been lucky," Lucas says later as Harry wandlessly washes off the garden's dirt from both of them. "Maybe it has to do with having lived before."

"Maybe," Harry agrees, but really, he has no idea.

Lucas becomes a bit of a friend after that, despite all of his guardedness and easily frightened nature. They get along rather well, actually, although they avoid talking about either of their pasts through an implicit agreement. Lucas helps out with the garden and Harry gives him food and sometimes a safe place to sleep (although the boy never lets Harry give him the cot again). Sometimes Harry teaches him about magic, things that were forgotten once the magical community hid itself away for good, and Lucas absorbs any information like a shriveled sponge, desperate for some connection to their heritage.

Months later, after the earth has unfrozen and sunlight begins to carry some heat again, Lucas tells him that it is his birthday.

It is also the first time he brings up his past. He mentions his birthdays as a child briefly, and something about his mother singing him awake in the mornings.

"Muggleborn?" Harry asks. Lucas shrugs and Harry takes that as a yes, wincing in sympathy. Terrible things happen to muggleborns nowadays, brought on by parents, horrified to discover that their beloved child had magic.

"You remember when we first met?" Lucas's gaze is pensive and distant. "The thing that they stole from me—it was from my mother. I'll never get it back."

Harry has nothing to say to that.

That night they fall asleep by the fire, Harry on the cot and Lucas curled up next to him on the rough floor beside the fireplace. There is a strange wistfulness in Harry as he slips into sleep, watching Lucas breathe. The scene is familiar to him somehow, even though he cannot recall anything like this ever happening to him. The remembrance echoes deeper inside than he cares to explore, in a place with flickers of memories full of pain.

As it is, he isn't too surprised to wake up hyperventilating and in tears. No matter how long ago, his dreams of the dead are as painful as when he first saw their bodies. The pain wells up as agonizing as ever and he twists up tighter, trying to forget.

A hand touches his arm. "Harry? Are you all right?"

"Just a nightmare," he manages. "Go back to sleep."

"I have nightmares, too," Lucas says. "Not my memories of today. Of before. A long time ago. With pain and people who want to hurt me—because I was magic. Funny that I was magic in both my lives."

"Yeah," Harry says, because talking helps distract him. "People always want to hurt what's different."

"He—_I_ tried to hurt them back, I think," Lucas says. "It didn't always work, but they became afraid of what I could do to them eventually. Not just of what I could do."

"My—the people who I lived with, when I was little, they hated magic, too. That was—what, the 1980s? I feel so _old_ sometimes, you know? All these years…all these things that no one could understand." Harry forces himself to relax and sit up.

"Yeah," Lucas agrees in a subdued voice. "Not many people have a good idea of what it was like to live hundreds of years ago."

"Hundreds?" Harry asks, attention caught. "I thought you said that you lived in the 2030s?"

The boy shrugs in the darkness. "I think it might have been even earlier than that. 1930s or something. How's that for old?"

"Old. Yeah," Harry says. "But at least you don't have all the middle years."

"At least _you_ don't have sudden flashbacks in the middle of the day, triggered by the most random things," Lucas points out.

Harry brushes his hair out of his eyes and frowns. "I suppose both ways are difficult."

"How very diplomatic of you," Lucas says and falls back down onto his blankets. "I'm going back to sleep."

"'Night," Harry says politely despite the rather abrupt end to the conversation. He lies back down at stares at the faint outline of the boy's hair and slowly drifts off again.

When he wakes up, Lucas is gone. Harry finds himself surprisingly upset at the boy's departure, as it had been a long time since he left without a word. His tiny house seems emptier than usual, so he wanders around outside in his garden for a while, kicking up some of the plants that hadn't survived the cold, not sure what to do with himself.

When he goes back inside, he finds that Lucas has left him a note, previously gone unnoticed. Harry frowns. When would Lucas have learned to read and write?

_Harry_—(reads the note) _I have learned something from my memories of before I was reincarnated. I'm sorry for leaving so abruptly, but my new memories are rather unsettling. I will most likely return in a few days. _

_ Lucas. _

Harry frowns. The writing in the letter was neat and formal—and a bit unlike Lucas's usual way of speaking. It is very odd, but doesn't leave Harry much room to do anything but wait. How bad could Lucas's revelations have been, to drive him to run away to think?

A few days later, as promised, he finds out.

"I know why you can't die." Lucas kneels across from Harry in the garden, a row of lilies as a wall between them.

"Oh?" Harry asked. "How's that? I didn't tell you any details."

"It's because of the prophecy. Our prophecy." Lucas shifts the pressure from leaning on his hands from one wrist to the other, a movement Harry recognizes as a readiness to flee. "Spoken by Trelawney, heard by Dumbledore, delivered by Snape."

Harry settles back on his heels to watch Lucas steadily. "It's been a long time since I heard those names."

"Yes. I imagine so," Lucas doesn't back down frown Harry's gaze, and they're caught for a moment, neither sure where to go next.

Harry sighs at last, dropping his gaze to the flowers for a moment. "And either must die at the hands of the other, eh?"

"Yes," Lucas agrees. "That doesn't explain why I've been reborn, but yes, that's why you can't die, isn't it?"

Harry considered the boy—the young man, really, for another moment. "That's part of it. Death doesn't like me very much. I united the Deathly Hallows on the night you died."

"The Hallows..." Lucas (Riddle) (_Voldemort_) considers this. "If you accept the existence of death as a physical being, almost a deity, then yes, that makes sense." He brushes off the burst of contemplation and returns to Harry. "What will you do, now that you know?"

Harry shrugs and brushes off some of the soil from his hands. "You could kill me. Be immortal. I'll warn you, though—it's not much fun even if you don't have anyone to watch die."

"I'm hurt, Harry." Voldemort's eyes widen with mock-innocence through Lucas's facial features. "Do you really think that I'd have the nerve to kill you, once you've given me such _kind_ hospitality without asking anything in return?" The implied insult to Harry's treatment of Lucas stings more than anything else could, even the realization that Lucas is Tom Riddle's reincarnated self.

"That would be a little bit rude," Harry agrees with a little bit more of an edge to his words than he intends.

"I'm still Lucas, you know." Harry tries not to pull away as the other leans forward. "I'm him, but I have other memories, too. It wasn't until I remembered you that I realized that was really happening. Most things remain blurry. There were a lot of deaths, weren't there?"

"Most by your hand," Harry agrees sharply. "What do you want from me?"

"Why am I here, Harry?" Voldemort is still much to close to him, practically hissing the words into his face. "Why have I been reincarnated? What brought me to remember all of these strange past happenings? Judging by past experience, it was probably some meddling on your part."

"Maybe Death was tired of keeping me around once I stopped having people I cared about," Harry replies, not knowing the answer but not really caring, either. "I don't know, Riddle, so you won't get an answer from me."

Voldemort doesn't reply to that response directly, but instead considers Harry in silence for a minute, peering intently into his face.

"Where are the others?" he asks at last.

"The others?" Harry is tired of this conversation, tired and exasperated by having to speak to this person who switches from half-friend to half-enemy without pausing for breath.

"The other wizards," Voldemort clarifies. "They went somewhere to hide and make their own world, as separate as they could manage. Where are they?"

Harry sighs and admits the truth. "I don't know. I did once, I helped them hide themselves away, but I didn't go with them. I helped create the means to hide, but they wouldn't say where they were headed if I wasn't going with them."

"Of course they didn't," Voldemort mutters, pulling back at last. He falls into silence again, lost in thought processes, probably plotting some evil plans that Harry would no doubt feel obligated to thwart.

"Could you find them?"

Could he? Maybe with enough time and a wand, but, "I'm not going to search the whole planet just to help you find some wizards."

"Couldn't we help them?" Voldemort's gaze is steadier than Lucas's had been. The boy had always been half a movement away from fleeing, but Voldemort has more confidence in his abilities to fend off Harry. "We could help bring in the ones still trapped out here, like I was. Many of them have already banded together, forming their own alliances. It wouldn't be difficult to get them to agree to something safer."

"I don't understand why you want me to help you," Harry said shortly. "And I chose not to go with them. The ones who left have their lives. They can't open up the borders we created, it's not possible. I would know."

Voldemort seems to accept this knowledge after a moment. "Could you modify the rituals to allow crossing over if you started over with a new place?"

Harry hooked his feet back under him and stood up. "Look, I don't know what you're thinking, but I don't want any part of your plans. Leave me out of them. Feel free to go off and mess with everyone's lives again, but I don't want any part of that. I'm _finished_."

Voldemort stands too, still regarding Harry thoughtfully. "You act as though you've lost your will to help people, but I know that isn't true. Your treatment of the poor muggleborn boy who apparated into your garden can testify to that."

"Get out," Harry says as calmly as he can manage. "I won't be helping you, so you needn't bother to return. Get out."

Voldemort nods and walks easily over to the gate with a smoothness to his step that Lucas hadn't had. "I won't give up on this, Harry," he warns.

"I won't ever help you," he replies with equal firmness. They exchange a glance that Harry hopes shows that his loathing hasn't changed with time, and then Voldemort leaves.

-Fin-

A/N: Go ahead and guess what Voldy's motives are. I'm curious what you guys think happens after this. And hey, who knows? You might inspire me into continuing this! (Not too likely though. :) I like how it ends.)


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